Valentines are for the young
by Mistressdickens
Summary: A Valentines day for our wonderful Chelsie couple does not run along the usual expected romantic lines when they've not yet had the 'talk'. A reflection on what might have happened on that day, set just before the events of season six, episode 1.


**A/N: So I had a request from Danielle Shepherd for a Valentine's Day fic after the proposal. Which I'm happy to do, of course, but this might not be the lovely ball of fluff you might expect. That would be because right around the same time as this request was made, I was in the middle of betaing a story by mrphoonminnie, which is still in process. I took an idea from that story (having checked it was ok first) and expanded on the ideas therein. You're all going to love that story by Mrphoonminnie when it finally arrives, but in the meantime, I give you this.**

Mrs Hughes is sat before her mirror carefully pinning her hair into place one grey morning in mid-February. It is, in truth, the exact middle of the month, the 14th, a day dear to couples all around the world, and the first time she ever had reason to hope the day would hold any romantic possibilities for her.

Here she is, however, an engaged woman. As she sits in front of the mirror, she scrutinises the face reflected there and wonders, not for the first time in the weeks since the proposal, what precisely Mr Carson sees in her. She's not _bad_ looking, and the touch of vanity deep within, reminds her that she had managed to turn heads in her younger days, but that was decades ago, and the pressures of responsibility as well as the usual marches of time have made themselves known on her face. Not to mention the rest of her body.

Pursing her lips at her reflection, she resolutely pushes those most unwelcome thoughts away. Things have been decidedly odd since Christmas eve – the same and yet not, every moment, every shared look shot through with something unknown. They treated each other with the same respect, same deference and care as they have always done. They have discussed the issues of the house and the staffing problems now Madge and Ruth have both handed in their notice. He was anxious about how his Lordship would deal with these new changes, whilst she wonders if it signalled the beginning of the end for service they have both devoted their lives to.

She did not welcome the change wholeheartedly, to do so would mean a denial of her entire life, but she sees the benefits and has given her support to the girls who want to leave far more openly and warmly than Mr Carson has. It's not exactly a sore point between them, but his grumbling has caused her to press her point a touch more fiercely than she might otherwise have done.

However, the arguments – if you could call them that, Mrs Hughes thinks to herself, they're more like discussions – are swift to finish nowadays. One or other of them only has to smile, to raise an eyebrow, for their sparring partner to back down and make peace.

It is a peaceful atmosphere in which to live and Mrs Hughes is quite content. 'Yes you are' she firmly tells her mirrored image, and sets her mind to the challenges of the day, and not the many questions that proper contemplation of Mr Carson inevitably brings.

It is time for breakfast and she makes her way downstairs, stopping only to waylay Anna who she passed on the stairs and is looking extremely pale. Assured, although she makes a mental note to keep an eye on the woman, that nothing is the matter, Mrs Hughes carries on her way to the servant's hall.

Mr Carson's door is closed and Mrs Patmore pushes past her with a steaming pot of porridge, calling a 'you're late' in her direction, so she decided to forgo her usual five minutes in her sitting room, preparing for the day, and takes her usual place at the dining table. Fred, the hall boy, is in the middle of handing out post amid a sea of whispers and giggles from the lower end of the hall. Madge and Ruth smirk at each other and compare the notes written inside their cards, whilst Mr Bates very simply hands an envelope over to his wife as she enters the room. Mr Carson has three letters, two of which she surmises are business, whilst she recognises her own handwriting on the top most envelope with a little flutter of anticipation.

She had decided it would be easier to post her card to him rather than attempting to find a time to exchange gifts in their busy day, especially when the entire household seemed to be scrutinising their every move. Mrs Hughes was not quite sure why her engagement should inspire _so_ much interest when a number of similar circumstances had occurred to housemaids over the years, but so it has proved. She found she was a little irritated by the unwanted attention but thought (or rather hoped) it would die down soon enough if both she and Mr Carson acted as usual.

It was in this spirit that she had decided to post her card, and she is glad it had arrived on time. There is, she notes, however, as she takes her seat, no similar envelope by her plate. She is hardly surprised he has forgotten, he usually did, but she cannot help feel a little disappointed that in this he has not changed. She tries to school her features into blandness and reaches for the tea pot to make them both a cup.

She frowns as she pours and tries to order her thoughts, wondering why she should feel this way. They are not romantic in the usual sense of the word, and hadn't his proposal shown that they did not need the usual courting paraphernalia to convey meaning to their words. That he should forgo the outward trappings of love is so very true to his character and hers. They both had shown remarkable restraint since the engagement. Perhaps they stood a little closer when conversing in the passage, perhaps they allowed their eyes to connect and linger longer than in the past, but they have hardly touched since the time she had placed her hand on his arm and felt him crumble with relief. They certainly have not kissed.

She is beginning to wonder if they ever will before the wedding. It was to be expected with a man of tradition such as Mr Carson, and really it is no hardship to wait a little while longer for her first kiss. It is only a few more months after all. Or maybe a bit longer. She doesn't know, they haven't yet discussed setting a date.

She is pulled from her wandering thoughts by the scraping back of chairs and she only just manages to get to her feet as Mr Carson arrives at his chair.

'Good morning everyone', he intones, glancing around to check all are present and allowing his gaze to rest a touch longer on her before he sits. It is a ritual he has performed every day since Christmas, keeping his face an impassive mask, but smiling with her eyes so she knows how pleased his is to see her.

She returns his look as she sits, pushing her disappointment to the back of her mind, and busies herself with buttering her toast, determined not to watch him as he opens his post. His hands are still in her line of sight, however, and she notes how they pause as he recognised the handwriting on the top most envelope. He does not demand an explanation from her right at that minute, but instead slits the envelope with his knife (not yet used), and pulls the card out.

He draws a small breath in as he looks at the front and she chances the briefest flick of her eyes to his face. Well, he doesn't look displeased, that's something.

She had tried very hard to avoid the saccharine love hearts and nauseating verse so common to the usual cards available. She had gone all the way to Ripon to make her purchase, dreading the knowing looks she would have got in the village, and had almost begun to worry that she would find nothing suitable when she came across something which had caused her to break into a wide smile.

The drawing on the front depicted a setting sun over a wide expanse of water – the sea, or a lake, she wasn't quite sure – and the reflection of the vivid pink, red, orange and violet clouds seemed to create a heart shape. The inside was mercifully blank. It was the perfect card for them.

He is opening it now, had very carefully manoeuvred the envelope to cover the front so nobody should discover the truth, and is staring at what was written inside. The silence is deafening, even though everyone about her makes conversation, clanks their cutlery and scrapes back chairs as bells ring, _he_ made no sound whatsoever.

She reaches for her tea, and oh so casually lifts her head to take a sip so that she might peruse him over the rim of the cup.

Oh merciful heavens. His eyebrows have risen so high in surprise that they almost disappear into his hairline, which is no mean feat considering his hair is impeccably slicked back.

She hadn't written very much, no wordy declaration or anything particularly risqué. She hadn't wanted to tease him in this. She had merely inscribed 'From Elsie May'.

She cannot really say why it was important that he should know her middle name, except that it was very necessary that he should have that knowledge before the wedding, but now she wondered at the sense of it. She had hoped by now that he would call her something other than her title, but noting had been forthcoming, not even an endearment. Anything would have been preferable to the formality of 'Mrs Hughes', which was now simply a mockery, given their changed relationship. She had not meant to challenge him with this small piece of information, but this silence indicated his thoughts precisely.

She still hasn't looked at him properly and now her lack of post burns within her like a shame. She has to leave and reconstruct her tattered thoughts before she is able to go about her day.

Standing from the table, Mr Barrow and Mr Bates also rising in deference to her exit, she manages to pull the attention of Mr Carson. His face has already regained the smooth mask of his dutiful self. She smiles a little but it doesn't reach her eyes, and he sees it immediately, gazing down at her table setting and her empty hands before lifting his eyes to hers once more. He looks slightly contrite.

'You've not been to your sitting room this morning?'

It is a strange question and she cannot think why he would ask it. She resorts to a defensive tone as she replies.

'I've not had the time Mr Carson!'

His contrition changes to subtle amusement, which galls her and tries her patience.

'I think you should.'

'Later, Mr Carson. I've not got the time now either.'

She starts to move around his chair, but is compelled to stop by the light and very fleeting touch of two of his fingers on her forearm.

'Please'.

She sighs and shakes her head at him. 'Oh very well.' She moves off towards her sitting room, not seeing his little smile as he stands and makes to follow her.

She moves swiftly to her room and throws open the door, fully prepares to enter and find everything as she left it the previous night, except she doesn't, and is completely unable to move from the doorway.

There, on her desk, is a tiny vase which holds one single, perfect, long stemmed rose, in full bloom, the deepest shade of red, and an envelope propped up against it. She takes it all in with a single glance but cannot quite understand it, as the previous disappointment still lingers.

'You didn't think I'd forgotten did you?' asks a low voice _very_ near to her ear.

'I couldn't be sure, exactly.' She does not trust herself to look at him, is fearful he will see the tears in her eyes at this rather grand gesture, and think less of her somehow.

'I wanted to surprise you.'

Bless the dear man, he sounds so worried, so concerned, and she cannot help but turn around to face him, her breath hitching when she realises quite how near he is, a slow smile forming on her lips.

'And you did, Mr Carson.' She is careful to use formal names after the apparent failure of the card. she reaches out to squeeze his forearm in appreciation and reassurance. It is a gesture repeated from their proposal. Back them he had not reciprocated, so she is surprised now to feel his hand covering her own, lightly stroking her fingers.

He is looking at her in a strange way, she has not seen that look before. He is staring at her, taking in her features as if he might never see them again, and he is leaning towards her ever so slightly. He cannot mean to do what she thinks (hopes) he is about to, they are still in the passage way after all, but he continues to stare and he continues to move his head in miniscule increments towards her.

'Mrs Hughes!' The moment is broken by the sound of Ruth crashing down the stairs and sprinting towards her. They move apart, hands falling to their sides, returned to butler and housekeeper once more.

'Mrs Hughes, you must come – Fred took a tumble trying to assist me with something in the linen cupboard and he's got an awful cut to his head.'

Her eyes flash fire at the unfortunate messenger. 'If he has got even a _drop_ of blood on that new tablecloth, he'll find he's the one washing it out!' she snaps, crosser than she might have been because of what has been interrupted. She hurries off, sending Mr Carson a rueful smile from the foot of the stairs, and that is the last she sees of the butler, or her sitting room, until well after lunch.

When she finally gets the chance to sit down for longer than a minute without some interruption or other, she allows herself the pleasure of opening the card. She savours the moment, does not rush it as an over eager youthful girl might. She delights in looking at the picture – a perfectly average set of intertwined hearts, but not so over the top as one usually sees. There is no verse on the front, for which she is grateful. In her brief exploration of those on offer she found they usually included the word love.

Neither of them has vocalised that emotion and she does not want the first time she expresses it to be through the written word. Evidently Mr Carson is of the same mind. She is thankful for that, but does find herself wondering if it is ever going to be said. Does it even need to be? Would it embarrass him too much? Whilst he said he was not going to marry anyone else, does that actually mean he loves her, or just that he is too long in the tooth to establish that kind of relationship with anyone new.

Companionship is no bad thing, but that's not what he wants, surely, not given the way he looked at her this morning.

Her thoughts are revolving in circles and she feels as confused as she has ever done. It was never this complex with Joe, but back then the choice was simple. It will do her no good to get so introspective in the middle of the day, she has to get on – it is a miracle she has been left alone for this long.

She opens the card and all her doubts come flooding back, because there in the middle of the page, in his neat and careful script, the words 'from C. Carson' are inscribed.

He might has well be corresponding with the wine merchant for all the personality it reveals and she is thrown into renewed puzzlement about what it is he actually wants from her.

She doesn't exactly avoid him for the rest of the day, but she throws herself into her work, making it clear that any and all interruptions will not be viewed kindly, and at dinner converses with Anna and Mr Bates about the upstairs wishes for the hunt, which is to take place in two days' time.

She cannot avoid him once the upstairs dinner has finished, however, and in truth welcomes his company. But she does not dare to speak of any of the matters which have been crowding her brain for the past weeks. It is better not to know than have his blustering and evasive answer to her questions on love and expectations for their marriage. She knows him too well to think he would ever be comfortable with such a conversation, asking him to reveal his emotions so openly.

He does manage to briefly surprise her as they sit in companionable silence, having exhausted the topics of conversation their duties bring up. They have been silent for some minutes, enjoying their wine when he quietly says 'Earnest'.

'What?' She is puzzled about whose characteristics have floated through his mind. The only one she can think of is Mr Molesley and he had been unusually inconspicuous today.

'It is my middle name.'

Ah, bless the man. He is acknowledging her gift and attempting to make amends for his card. she smiles. 'It suits you.'

'Well, I thought you should know, before …'

He trails off and she is filled with a sudden panic. His thought process has mirrored hers, and it's true that they should know these kind of things before they are married, but his unfinished sentence suggests they should actually be talking about the wedding, setting a date, planning. But she cannot bring herself to do any of those things whilst she is so confused, and so she merely hums in agreement and takes a sip of her wine. She does not see her bemused glance and before long she cannot stand the silent tensions and announces she is off to bed.

He stands as she does and opens the door to her sitting room, and bids her a quiet and sincere good night, but he makes no move to reach out and touch her, and his eyes hold none of that strange intensity they had that morning, when she was sure he was going to kiss her. He is as courteous and formal as he ever was, and as she makes her way up the stairs she tries to resign herself to the fact that the quiet pleasantries of their evening might be all they will ever share.

She returns to her bedroom more confused and unsettled than when she left it. Valentine's Day is supposed to be for lovers and romance, and whilst she and Mr Carson do things on a quieter scale to the young, the day has flung questions, rather than answers, in her path.

She cannot deny the way he makes her feel, and her breath hitches anew as she remembers the look in his eyes, but she cannot imagine that he will look at her like that if they take the final intimate step marriage is supposed to bring. If he even wants that. Does she? She stares at her reflection in the mirror and does not shy away from the knowing look she gives herself. Oh yes, she does want that. She just doesn't know how to ask the questions which will reveal what _he_ wants.

She sighs deeply as she makes her final preparations for bed and tries to accept that she will not find the answer to her worries and questions tonight. It is clear enough that Valentine's Day should be left to the young, but that is beside the point. She must find a way to organise these disordered thoughts before she drives herself, and possibly him, to distraction.

Tomorrow will be soon enough, or maybe the day after that. Soon anyway. Soon.

 **A/N: A note on timelines. This is obviously set before any of the events in S6E1 (although only a couple of days before the hunt). I think it's PERFECTLY possible that they would have spent six weeks avoiding the issues. It's quite hard to write this without a certain omnipotence to canon, but hopefully I've done her extreme confusion justice. Tiny ironic nod to episode 5. Poor Fred.**

 **Whenever Mrphoonminnie's story comes, it will be a thing of beauty, so look out for that.**

 **A review or two would set me up forever.**


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